Oh Dear
by Haurvatat
Summary: AU. Castiel Novak, fine upstanding Christian man, moves to Maine and promptly falls head over heels for the gay porn star next door. Oh yeah. This one is going to end well. Dean x Castiel, Destiel. Pure crack based on a tumblr prompt, so you know some ridiculousness is going to get involved, whether I intended it to get involved or not.
1. That is MAHOGANY

Disclaimer: I own nothing of Supernatural. Actually, I don't even own this idea. The fic prompt came from tumblr users benedlunds and gabriel-stole-the-tardis. I think, from that latter username alone, we can figure out just how south this whole damn thing is gonna go.

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Jimmy Castiel Novak (Castiel was a much cooler name than Jimmy, according to his wife, so his first name was often ignored, despite the part where he felt much more like a Jimmy than a Castiel) was a fine, upstanding Christian man. He was in marketing, and had finally gotten out of the black hole that was radio commercial time sales, instead taking up employment with a media distribution company that needed better marketing strategies. That, however necessitated relocation.

His wife, Amelia, and their daughter Claire hadn't wanted to move, but some things weren't precisely negotiable. Amelia was a housewife, anyway, and she had no other option if she wanted the family to keep its income. Castiel regretted forcing her to do this, but in the end, he told himself that the bigger paycheck would make the move more bearable for all involved.

It was a beautiful wooded area in Sabattus, Maine. Lovely little Number 3813 Lucien Street. Not too crowded, but close to Main Street and any number of churches just down the road, which Castiel was pleased to note. There were also a few shopping districts a stone's throw away, which _Amelia _was pleased to note.

"Please - no, that's mahogany - please, don't - oh!" Castiel stumbled over the words as the movers juggled the gorgeous dining room table his great-great-uncle had carved before he died, almost dropping it on the cement. Castiel could feel every inch of him clench in terror. God, no. Not that table. He should have moved everything in himself, no matter how heavy it was.

Actually... Why not?

"Er, gentlemen? Could you set that down for a moment - no, not like that! There we go, thank you," Castiel said nervously. "You know, I believe I may have a handle on this myself from this point on. Thank you for your time. Do you need me to sign something, or...?"

"We'll mail you the bill, sir. Now, you're sure you don't need any help with this? Stuff's pretty heavy."

"Quite sure I've got it, thank you," Castiel said. The_ 'Please don't ever touch my belongings again' _that flashed through his mind went unsaid. He waved the movers off, then turned to stare at the furniture that had yet to be hauled out of the second truck. The first truck, which had housed all the boxes on their journey from Illinois to Maine, had mercifully already been unpacked. Castiel wasn't sure his back would have forgiven him if he tried to haul the boxes full of books into the house and up the stairs.

The furniture, though... that might be a issue. That was one big couch, now that Castiel thought about it, and delicate Amelia could only be expected to haul so much, as she had continued to remind him throughout the move.

"Need some help?" a warm, rough voice asked. Castiel's head jerked up. Where had...?

A young man, probably in his mid to late twenties, leaned on the fence separating the properties. He had tousled short brown hair and a tan, which brought out the freckles lightly dusting his nose. His massive grin was infectious, though, and Castiel found himself smiling shyly back.

"I take it that we're new neighbors, huh?" the man asked. "Unless you pissed off the movers and they dumped you and your stuff in the wrong part of town."

"Er, no, no, nothing like that," Castiel said. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mister...?"

"No Mister. Dean Winchester. Howdy." He stuck out a hand and it didn't escape Castiel's attention that this guy was ripped. He looked like he could break a man's neck with his bare hands. He took the hand and gave it a firm shake, determined (for some bizarre reason) not to look weak in front of his new neighbor.

"Jimmy Novak."

Dean frowned, eyebrows drawing together in confusion. "You don't look much like a Jimmy, gotta say."

He smiled awkwardly. "Amelia says so, too. Er, that is my wife." Had he imagined it, or had Dean blinked as soon as the word 'wife' happened? "She only calls me by my middle name, and so I suppose it kind of stuck."

"So what's your middle name?"

He scratched the back of his head. "It's - well, really, it's kind of embarrassing... I think it's a ridiculous name, but she seems to like it, and, well - ugh. I mean, I suppose it's grown on me a little -"

"Oh, out with it."

"..Castiel," Castiel muttered.

"Castiel?" Dean repeated. "You've gotta be joking."

"I did tell you it was a ridiculous name."

"No! Are you kidding? That name is kickass! It sounds all..." Dean wiggled his fingers. "I dunno; it just sounds awesome. I'm with your wife on this one. You don't mind if folks call you Castiel? Or, actually, can I call you Cas?"

"Er, certainly?" Castiel said. He really was not used to being bowled over. Dean obviously had a very strong personality.

"All right then, New Neighbor Cas. I actually came over here 'cause it looked like you were out some workers. Need a little brawn to haul your stuff? I can't picture the Missus carrying that piano in," he said.

"Really? You would? Thank you so much; I wasn't sure how I was going to get all of this in there without breaking it, but... I can't imagine the movers doing much better in that regard."

"Anything I can do to get you settled in, man," Dean said, flashing that star-bright smile of his again. With little more effort than it would have taken to breathe, Dean jumped and swung his legs over the fence. "Should I get the other end of this table here?"

"Yes; please."

"Okay, I got it."

"Are you certain?"

"I got it! We're good. Six inches clearance on this side."

The two of them slowly walked the table up the driveway and into the house, Castiel maneuvering the objects behind him with Dean's instruction.

They reached the dining room before Amelia came out of the bedrooms in the back. "Oh! I'm sorry, but honey, who's this?" she asked, shooting furtive glances at her husband, clearly asking _Who the hell is this man and are one hundred percent positive he's not here to kill us all in our sleep?_

"My apologies. Amelia, this is Dean Winchester. He's our neighbor and kindly offered to help me bring in the rest of our things. Dean, this is my wife, Amelia."

"Nice to meet you, ma'am," Dean said, smiling. Somehow, it didn't look like the same smile Castiel had gotten earlier.

"Er, nice to meet you, too," she said warily, shaking hands with Dean before quickly retracting her hand and tucking it under her arm. "I'll just... go see if there's anything more I can carry in," she said. She hurried off.

Castiel was utterly unaware of whatever had just happened, but Dean seemed all right with whatever it was, so that had to be a good sign. As long as his prized mahogany family heirlooms didn't end up scraped and ruined against the cement, he was pleased.

If he also secretly wanted to see that impossibly bright smile of Dean's again, paired with the flex of those arms, he certainly wasn't going to mention it.

* * *

(A/N): I don't even ship Destiel. Why the fuck am I writing for it. Seriously. It was just such a good plot bunny, it had to happen. I want to work multiple perspectives in on this one, so I might swing back and forth between Cas's and Dean's points of view.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, SIS. YOU WANTED ME TO WRITE IT SO I SAT DOWN AND GOT SOME SHIT DONE. AWW YISS.


	2. Everybody's Making A Fuss

Chapter Two! My update speed is not particularly shabby, no? Naw, but I was seriously shocked and awed by the rapid response. You guys are truly, truly, truly outrageous.

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When Dean saw the "SOLD" sign in the front lawn of the place next door, he'd been a bit worried. Just a little. He could think of infinite ways for this to end badly. The guy who owned it currently (or, given the whole 'just been sold' thing, the _previous_ owner) had bought the propery and done some major renovations for the sole purpose of selling it at a much higher price. As a result, the guy was barely ever around. Dean thought his name might be Colin, but he couldn't be sure. It might have been Charlie or Carlos or something else that started with a C. The dude was only there to do renovation work, anyway, banging away at shit with power tools the poor bastard could barely lift, what with his limp noodle arms.

Dean was (ironically) a private kind of guy. Well, no. That was a flat-out lie. More like, he wasn't fond of people's reactions when his private life became not-so-private. People got all judgy and Dean just didn't feel like putting up with their shit when they did, so it was just easier all around to keep his own yap shut tight about exactly what he did for a living.

Dean made gay porn. Really, really explicit gay porn.

It was very well-made porn, as far as gay porn was concerned, but for some reason, that didn't matter much to folk who found out before they were ready to take it. Nothing quite like introducing yourself as a porn star to get the conversational ball rolling.

Granted, he didn't work solely as a porn actor. He held down a normal job as a carpenter, and when his agent phoned him with a gig, he'd take a few days of absence from his day job and... well.

It was an honest living, for the most part.

And now some new neighbour, one who was exceedingly likely to be nosy and obnoxious and judgmental (Dean knew his own luck far too well to expect anything less) was going to be right next door.

Judging him.

With judging eyes.

Maybe they'd stare at him through open windows, then quickly shut their curtains when they realised he'd noticed them.

He'd keep the whole thing a secret for as long as he could. It wasn't exactly public knowledge, and if they recognised him from his work... well, they probably wouldn't be too judgmental if they knew his work that intimately.

"I'm telling you, Sammy, I'm so fucked," Dean whined into the phone. "A car pulled in, like, an hour or two ago and this lady waltzes out like the Queen of Sheba and this little girl is trotting after her. Momma's got her nose so high in the air, it's like she's trying to get a good whiff of everyone else's inferiority. And they've got a prius. You've gotta be kidding me."

"There's nothing wrong with owning a prius, Dean. Maybe they're just an environmentally-conscious family."

Dean snorted. "And maybe I'm a prolific member of Congress(!) I'm just saying, you can see the Aunt Petunia just _radiate_ off this ho."

"You read a book!"

"Try not to faint."

"No promises. Fetch me my fainting couch, peasant," Sam said, deadpan. Dean bust up laughing.

"Oh! Oh! Here's the moving van! I thought the prius was a little... impractical for a move," he said, eyes tracking the van's progress through the blinds. "Hang on. Updates straight from the front lines, Sammy."

"Try not to do anything to get yourself shot. At least not on the first day."

"Too right. I usually save that for the second date."

"Have we forgotten Patience and that one thing in Whitefall?"

"Everyone's making a fuss. She only shot me once."

Sam tried to stifle his snickering, but it still made it over the phone. "People have no idea we're quoting something, huh? I'm just imagining what the conversation has to sound like to anybody listening in and hearing only half of it."

"Hey. Hold up. Guy is getting out of the van. Riding shotgun."

"Is he ugly?"

"I can't really tell from here. He's white," Dean offered. "Looks like his hair is dark brown. Almost black. Hang on; I'm going in."

"Dean?"

"Still here. Just going to get a closer look is all. Call it research. I can just pretend to be watering my plants."

"You have plants?"

"Yes."

"Ones you haven't killed?"

"...I never said _that_. But he's not gonna know, and I'm not gonna tell him."

He could practically hear his brother shake his head. "Keep me posted if you're not dead in an hour."

"Can do. Toodles, sweet-cheeks," he said, making a kissy noise into the phone at his pissy, cursing brother, and hanging up. Now, for the research.

Out of the corner of his eye (he had to keep up the pretense of watering his very-much-dead bushes from the plastic water bottle he'd brought with him), he could just make out his new neighbour.

The new guy looked to be just a shade shorter than Dean, so maybe about six feet tall. Respectable. The way his shoulders pulled in made him seem much smaller, though. He had on a white business shirt - he'd even tucked it in - and a tie that was actually kind of nice. Dean hadn't known that ties existed that weren't ugly. The new neighbour's hair looked like it had at one point been neat and orderly, but since had been ruffled all out of place by nervous fingers running through it. It was endearing in a weird way. The guy seemed to bounce around with a nervous, panicked energy, trying to direct the movers as best he could. Whoever gave him caffeine needed to sit down and rethink their life choices.

They were moving a table, a beautiful thing of what looked like mahogany, old and polished lovingly. They were almost scraping it against the unforgiving concrete, and Dean's soul cried a little. Apparently, the new neighbour agreed. He was subtly getting the movers the hell away from his stuff before they ruined it. Good man. It seemed, for all his nervousness and seeming shyness, the man could square his shoulders and get shit done whenever necessary. Dean liked that. The movers got their stuff together and took off in the emptied van, leaving the new neighbour staring at the table and whatever else was in that monster moving van that remained, running his fingers through his hair with a massive air of 'what-the-hell-did-I-just-do' and 'I-don't-know-but-I'm-just-going-to-have-to-shut-up-and-deal-with-it-somehow'.

Dean still didn't know what possessed him to speak up.

Er, metaphorically speaking.

"Need some help?" he asked.

The man's head jerked up, his whole body twisted around to find the source of the voice, and then they saw each other eye-to-eye, face-to-face for the first time.

Holy shit.

Dean wasn't normally flummoxed by a person's looks, but _damn, son_. His eyes were the most beautiful, piercing shade of blue Dean had ever seen. The shape of his eyelids, sloping upwards toward the crease between his heavyset eyebrows, gave him a world-weary, puppy-dog kind of look that was endearing as mess.

Dean tossed out a terribly executed joke (just beat your head against a wall, Dean), but it did the trick. Introductions were made straightaway.

Jimmy? Eurgh. He didn't look anything like a Jimmy. But maybe that was because he'd been watching too much Jimmy Neutron and had a hard time reconciling the two faces of 'Jimmy' in his head. Plus, in Britain, Jimmies were sprinkles you put on ice cream. Yeah, no. Not for that face. Although ice cream made him think of licking things, and that thought led to other thoughts and wait, what was going on again?

Oh, boooooooo. Boo you whore. He was married. To the Aunt Petunia lady. Christ on a cracker.

He needled at the guy to tell him what his other name was, and when it came, uncontrollable excitement reared its head up inside him.

"Castiel? You've gotta be joking." That was the coolest fucking name in the universe.

"I told you it was a ridiculous name," Castiel (yeah, he was totally gonna call him that now, from here to the end of the world) said, embarrassed. The more Dean talked with him, the more he realised that Castiel had a way of tilting his head slightly all the time, making him look perpetually confused.

Which, Dean supposed, he may very well be.

They went on talking, and Dean found a way to subtly (cough cough) invite himself into their house by offering to help the guy lug in his heavy shit. Yeah, his back might not like him for this, but his guy parts were currently disagreeing, and that was what really mattered.

It was several hours later that Dean went back to his own home, sweaty and gross and pleased as punch. Cas was an utter delight. Naive like a newborn, and yet somehow wise like someone far older. The dichotomy was adorable. Stubble or not, Dean just wanted to yank the man into a hug and give him a giant noogie (because Dean teased people he liked mercilessly - a bad habit left over from primary school). The Missus already didn't like him, but you know what? Screw her. Her husband was awesome enough for the whole family.

Family.

What a crying shame.

Straight. Married. With a kid. Who was cute. Wasn't that always the way? Dean toed off his shoes, socks, and eventually pants, shedding them uncaringly in a line of dropped garments on the floor on the way to the shower. Sam might be pissy, but Sam was in California, and could go stuff himself. Not everybody was a neat freak, and Dean revelled in his piggery, as Sam termed it. He yanked his shirt over his head and off with one arm in a neat, spiral motion, flinging it wherever. He heard a thunk and knew he'd knocked something over, but didn't care over much.

Last to go were the boxers, and by then, the shower was going and the water was warm enough not to freeze his important extremities off.

Dean just sighed out through his nose under the warming spray. Cas was a fucking delight.

So it was decided.

They were going to be best friends forever, and if somebody had a problem with that, Dean knew kung-fu.

* * *

(A/N): So yeah. Again, just stream-of-consciousness writing. Still haven't proofread anything. That's probably bad. Remind me to care when I don't have Biology and a Physics lab in the morning.

Regarding the title, it sort of has a double meaning in that it can be an "oh crap" phrase or something more tender and intimate. I'm fond of those sorts of double meaning things. I never title anything lightly, for all that I just throw words on a page for my actual content.


End file.
